like coming home
by onceuponamirror
Summary: When a historic country inn in Maine is offered up as the prize for a writing contest, Emma Swan only enters because she's sure she won't win. But when she makes the first round and is invited to Storybrooke, Maine, to visit the property, she realizes the prize is much more than a building; it's a home. Based off real life events. (Oneshot/Captain Swan)


**_I wrote this after being inspired by a real life writing contest that offers up a historic country inn in Maine as a prize. Please go google it, it's very cute! I followed the true parameters of the contest, which will take entries till May 7. I personally recommend reading the article first (because really, it's so cute), but you don't have to._**

* * *

_._

_._

_Top twenty._ She'd made the_ top twenty_.

Slowly, Emma Swan leans back in her chair, running a shaky hand through her hair. Over seven thousand applicants and _her_ little letter—written on a (semi drunken, if she's being honest with herself) whim months ago—made it through. She'd nearly forgotten she event sent the damn thing.

But between sending her son to school every day with a full stomach and cranking out all-nighter stake-out shifts for work, she'd had more than enough to occupy her mind. And frankly, she really hadn't been expecting to get past the first round. She barely got her GED, and she was _maybe_ ten percent more eloquent on paper than she was in person, and that wasn't saying much, given her…being, well, her.

Emma blows out her breath and pushes away her laptop. Henry sits on the couch across from her, engrossed in whatever new medieval video game that he just _had_ to have. "Hey, kid," she calls, clearing her throat. Henry flicks his eyes away from the screen briefly, then jerks his controller, his attention back on the game. "Henry."

Something in her tone gets his attention, and he blinks at her again before pressing pause. Carefully, he sets down his game. "What's up, Mom?"

"So, a couple of months ago, I did something kind of impulsive," she starts, and her son's eyes instantly narrow. Before he can get any rash ideas, she blurts out, "I entered a contest."

His eyebrows fly to the top of his hairline. "And you won?"

"Hey, don't act so surprised," Emma grumbles, "your mom's still got a few tricks up her sleeves." She pauses, looking at her hands. "It was a writing contest. It was Elsa's idea, and I'd had some wine—not that…never mind…well, I made it past the first round. I made the top twenty."

Her son beams at her. "Mom, that's great! What's the prize?"

Emma's teeth tug at her lip. "Well, that's the thing. I didn't tell you about it because there were so many other entries, and I figured I'd never get this far—but…well, it's an inn. Like…a _whole_ _inn_. The historic kind. Old bricks, white shingles, the whole shebang. And it's in Maine."

"An inn. In Maine," Henry echoes, scrunching up his nose. She gets up and joins him on the couch, her hands on his shoulders.

"If you hate it, and hate _me_, and you don't want to leave Boston, just say so, kid. I'll drop out now. Let some other Shakespeare have a whack at it. But they want all twenty of us to come and have a look at the place. See if it's something we'd really be into, before they make their final decision."

For a long, _agonizing_ minute, her son watches her. Says nothing, but studiously runs his eyes across hers. "You really want this, don't you?"

She nods slowly. "Yeah kid, I think I do."

A bright smile darts across Henry's face, and she lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding. "Then I better go pack."

* * *

As it turns out, the inn is nestled in the heart of a sleepy little coastal town called Storybrooke, and Emma can't help but think it is every bit as idyllic as it sounds. "Don't get attached," she warns Henry as he eagerly leans out the window of the bug to get a better look of the main street. He shoots her an unamused look, as if he knows she's talking more to herself than him. "What? There's no way I'm going to win."

"You already beat out like a million other people, Mom," Henry chides, watching a man cross the road with his dalmatian. "Anyway, _I_ didn't say anything."

"Just keep feeding me directions," she mumbles, suddenly desperate to change the topic.

Henry sighs, but ducks his head back towards his phone. "I think we're here, actually," he replies, glancing up. He raises a finger and points ahead of them. "Is that it?"

Emma thought she was nervous _before_, but now, following her son's gaze, she knows how wrong she was. The air feels like it's being swallowed up around her. Her eyes fall on the inn, taking in the slightly chipping paint around the windows and stately willow tree—and she has never wanted anything more in her life.

_(Since Henry, that is.)_

_(Still—now she wants this not just for her, but for him too. A home. A real one. For _them_.) _

"It looks nice," Henry comments lightly, unbuckling his seatbelt as Emma puts the bug in park.

She steps out of the car and puts her hands on her hips, unable to stop a smile from worming it's way onto her face. "Yeah," she breathes. "It does." She rounds the bug, throwing her arm around Henry's shoulder as she leads him towards the front entrance. There seems to be a diner attached to the other side of it, which Emma vaguely remembers being mentioned as having separate ownership.

Her heart is still creaking as they cross the threshold, but she suspects it may not stop thumping erratically until the end of this trip. There's an older woman knitting behind the front desk, and Emma recognizes her from the original article about the contest. She's the current owner, Isabelle Lucas, and she looks up as Emma and Henry approach her. "Can I help you?" Her voice is a bit gruff, but not unfriendly.

"Hi, we're…ah, here for the contest? I'm Emma Swan," Emma says, a bit awkwardly. "This is my son, Henry."

The woman looks a bit surprised, but impressed, and lets out an indistinct murmur from the back of her throat. "You're way early. Most people have a bit of trouble finding this cursed town."

Emma shrugs, looping her arm back around Henry's shoulders and tugging him into her. "I've got a good navigator."

"I'll say, love," a deep, accented voice cuts in from behind her. She twists her neck around, eyebrows rising as her attention lands on the owner of the low voice. He's handsome—strikingly so, with thick black hair and a rough scratch of dark scruff lining his jaw. His eyes are bright and blue—and fixated on her, gleaming dangerously. "_Impressive_."

Emma narrows her eyes, but the stranger just waggles his eyebrows at her before turning a full-watt beam onto her son. She gets the distinct feeling he's talking about anything but her son's directions, but Henry turns and grins at the man, thankfully still too young for innuendo. "Thanks."

Emma spares another moment to look over him—his arms are folded around a leather bound journal with a few flyaway papers sticking out of it, and he's clearly come from the cozy-looking lobby, where a black leather jacket still sits draped over one of the armchairs. She realizes he must be another writer, one of her competition. _Of course. _

He looks like he wants to say something else, introduce himself, possibly—but Mrs. Lucas is already huffing and puffing about wanting to show Emma and Henry to their rooms, so with one last glance in the man's direction, she follows after the grumbling innkeeper.

As they climb the stairs and wander through the main hall, Emma runs her fingers across the floral pink wallpaper, smiling softly to herself. "You can't change that," Mrs. Lucas barks, snapping Emma from her reverie. "If you win the inn. You can't change anything."

"Oh no, Mrs. Lucas, I don't want to do that. I like it as it is," she says, wrinkling her brow.

The woman studies her for a moment, before shrugging to herself and shaking the expression from her face. "Well…good. And you can call me Granny—everybody else in this stinkin' town does," she murmurs, but with distinct affection. She unlocks a wooden door, and shoulders her way in, gesturing for them to follow. "Anyway. The rest of the writers should all be here by 7, and we're having a little party down at the attached diner around then."

"Party?"

"Yeah. You know, like a little get-to-know-you. The whole town will probably show up, but should be fun." Emma can't help it—a frown escapes onto her face, which Granny instantly catches. "Sweetheart, this isn't just an inn you'd be getting. You get the town too. And all those in it. They're gonna want to know you and your business and they're probably gonna know it before you do." She pauses, leveling Emma with a steady look. "Is that gonna be a problem?"

Oddly, it's not. Usually, the idea of other people wanting in on her life is enough to send her running. It's been tough enough holding onto the few friends she does have—Elsa and her sister—and the idea of suddenly gaining a whole townful of them would normally overwhelm her.

But it doesn't, and Emma remembers why she wrote her contest entry in the first place. It's not just an inn she's looking for—it's a home.

So she shakes her head, and exhales. "No, it's not gonna be a problem. We'll be there at 7."

Granny grins at her, as if Emma's just passed some kind of test. Not that it really matters—the innkeeper only gets to make the shortlist of twenty. The last pool of judging will come from two outside parties, impartial to the inn's ownership.

But, still, something about the way the older woman is smiling at her stirs something within Emma. And it's not until much later, stretched across her bed and counting the nicks in the ceiling, that she realizes what that feeling is.

It's _hope_.

* * *

At 7 on the nose, she and Henry filter down into the diner, which happens to be also named Granny's. It's a cute little restaurant, with red nylon cushions and a pretty toile wallpaper. The room is swelled with people, the majority of whom Emma assumes are the townsfolk. Her heart gives a little kick, but she pushes herself forward anyway.

"You came," Granny observes as Emma and Henry slide onto adjoining barstools.

"You sound surprised," Emma replies, raising an eyebrow. The innkeeper just shrugs, and disappears behind the kitchen doors.

"Well, I'm not, love." The familiar voice of the dark-haired stranger curls around her ear, and she shifts in her seat, angling to see him leaning on the bar, his elbow propped up. He lifts a glass of amber drink to his lips. "You strike me as someone quite determined to get what she wants, once she sets her mind to it. Quite the spitfire, if I'm not mistaken."

She scoffs. _Definitely a writer_. "And what makes you think you know me?"

He grins, swaying closer. "The same thing that knows you're trying to push me away because you don't want to get attached to me, or to this town, even though you already love it here. I know that look in your eyes."

His words cut straight through her, and it nearly blows the breath from her lungs. He's right, of course—and that's _not_ okay. She swivels to face him, her eyes narrowing. "Am I supposed to be impressed right now?" To his credit, he falters, eyebrows rising on his brow. "The whole...handsome, brooding writer thing? Or is it that you have half of a _half_ of a conversation with me and so quickly decide you know everything about me?"

Behind her, Henry snickers, and slides off his barstool to go investigate the jukebox. He's used to her temper flaring up, and watching his mother chew out another man trying to flirt with her isn't exactly his favorite pastime.

The man scratches behind his ear, and damnit, she wishes it wasn't so cute a gesture. "Ah...lass, apologies, I meant no offense."

"Well, you're right," she sniffs. "When I do set my sights on something, I sure as hell fight for it. And I do want this inn. And to live here, in this town. I _know_ you're one of the other twenty writers, and I don't know what exactly your play is here, but you're not going to scare me off. Pretty words aren't going to get me to drop out of the contest."

An amused smirk sneaks back onto his features, much to her aggravation. "That's what you thought I was doing?"

Well, _now_ she's not so sure. But still, she juts her chin out, keeping her gaze steady. "Isn't it?"

For a long moment, they hold each other's gaze, but the man is smiling the whole time, telling her that her conclusion is either the farthest from the truth, or the closest. Either way, he's _definitely_ flirting with her.

"You are a suspicious one," he murmurs, and then twists in his seat, signaling for the woman behind the bar. As she approaches and the man's attention is occupied, Emma takes a moment to steady her breath. Even if he's just trying to mess with her, there's something about the steel in his eyes that still have her stomach in knots.

"Killian Jones, are you bothering this nice lady?" The waitress tuts, leaning forward on her elbows. Emma's eyes widen, settling on the man—Killian—as he flashes her an unapologetic grin.

"I do believe I am, Ruby," he sighs, and although his body faces the counter, his eyes never leave hers. "Alas, I just can't help myself, when she's so terribly lovely."

Red stains her cheeks, realization flooding in that this man is probably not one of her competitors at all, but actually a member of Storybrooke's populace. Still, what's a hot British guy doing in the middle of backwater Maine? "Oh," she whispers, almost imperceptibly.

The waitress—Ruby—flicks her eyes between them for a moment, before clearing her throat and turning to Emma. "I'm Ruby, by the way. I own this diner. And this here is Killian, town menace extraordinaire."

"Oi!" Killian snaps. "I _prefer_ town scoundrel, if you insist on name-calling. Or, perchance, town rapscallion?"

"You're not a writer?" Emma asks him, even though she's sure she has the answer, at this point. "But you talk so..."

"Oh no, that's just him, trust me," Ruby says, reaching behind the bar for two tumbler glasses.

"Alas, I'm but a simple fisherman," he says—and Ruby snorts, implying that's only a fraction of the truth. He settles his hand over his heart, watching as Ruby pours him a generous portion of rum back into his glass. "Now, are you more convinced of the altruism behind my intentions?"

"Ignore him," Ruby interrupts, before Emma can say anything. Not that she's even sure what she would say to that. She's sure he's still got an ulterior motive for flirting with her, even if it's far less original than trying to push her off his competition. Ruby passes her a tumbler of rum, having poured one for each of them. "I haven't seen you around before. You're a writer?"

"Emma Swan," she introduces, shaking hands with Ruby. "But I wouldn't really call myself a writer." Emma knocks back a healthy sip, and Killian watches the movement—she can sense his admiration from the corner of her eye.

Killian cocks his neck, smiling at her. "Come now, darling, you've made it quite far already. Someone among you must win, why not you?"

Emma snorts. "You sound just like my son."

"I take that as a compliment, then," he replies, eyes twinkling, and damn if that wasn't the best thing to say to a single mother. Begrudgingly, she tallies a point in his favor. Not that it matters, she quickly reminds herself. Not that she's getting attached.

"Emma Swan," Ruby repeats, meaningfully. "I think I remember your essay. It was really good." Emma snorts disbelievingly, ignoring the way Killian frowns at her response. "No, really. It was good. Granny is _my_ granny; she let me read some of her favorites."

Emma pauses, not sure how to respond to that. "Well, it's been nice to get this far," she says finally. "I really like Storybrooke."

"It's a nice place, isn't it?" Ruby smiles, sending her a warm look. "You should go talk to Mary Margaret Nolan over there." Ruby lowers her voice, pointing to a sweet-looking woman with black hair and a red dress, talking to a short, balding fellow and a tall, charming-looking blonde man. "You didn't hear it from me, but she's one of the final two judges."

Killian and Ruby share a conspiratorial smile, and Emma nods, grateful for the tip. She wants to win this fair and square, but she _does_ want to win it, and it won't hurt to talk to this Mary Margaret woman. "Remember love, you've got my vote," he says, as she's about to go, something gleaming in his eye that she can't—or won't—name.

* * *

By 11, the party has mostly died down. Henry has long since retired to their room—and his video games—and most of the writers have slipped off; most had come a much longer way than her, and were exhausted from traveling. One had even rode all the way here on a _motorcycle_.

Now it's just her, Mary Margaret and her husband David, Ruby, their friends Leroy and Victor (who is Ruby's boyfriend, Emma surmises, though he is stubbornly introduced as her friend).

And Killian, of course.

It's as if he refuses to leave her side all night, but surprisingly, Emma doesn't mind at all.

They spent over an hour talking before being joined by the rest of the group, sharing things that she never would've normally. Telling him about Henry's father, about how she fell into her line of work, and he returns stories of his failed marriage and lost family in return. It should scare her how comfortable she is with him, but, like with the rest of Storybrooke, she feels at home around him.

Once she'd gotten past her initial impression of him, Emma realizes that he's actually something of a gentleman. He's kind, and funny too—and it doesn't hurt that he makes no attempt to hide that he looks at her like she's the only person in the room.

_(She's sure, if he were to describe it, the words would be much more flowery.)_

_(And at this point, over 5 drinks in, she's tempted to ask him to try.) _

Despite herself—despite all her goals of staying unattached—it's not just Killian she likes. She likes them all—from the way Ruby doesn't take anyone's shit, to Mary Margaret's kind smile, to David's booming laugh.

She learns that Mary Margaret is a middle school principal, that David is the town sheriff, that Victor is a doctor, that Ruby built the diner herself only five years ago, after years of drifting aimlessly in life. They've all known each other since high school, and it shows.

She also gets confirmation that Killian describing himself as "a simple fisherman" is indeed an understatement—he actually owns several fishing boats and is one of the state's main distributors of lobster.

They let her in so easily, and Emma finds herself doing the same. She feels like she's just come home, and it kills her.

"Oh, it's getting late," Mary Margaret murmurs, staring at the clock above the bar. She looks disappointed, but resigned. "David, we better go relieve the babysitter."

As they're gathering their coats, Mary Margaret turns to Emma and squeezes her wrist, a soft look on her face. "It was so great to meet you Emma. I hope you win and we see more of you." Emma's not supposed to know that Mary Margaret is one of the final judges, so she adopts a small smile in return, praying it doesn't betray the hope that flares hotly in her chest.

"Yeah. I hope I win too," she replies quietly, feeling another pair of eyes on her. When she glances up, Killian is fixing her with an unreadable look, his tongue digging into the corner of his mouth. She forces her eyes back to Mary Margaret, who is watching the two with a small hum. "I really like you guys. If I don't win, Henry and I will still come visit. Boston isn't too far away."

The woman before her grins knowingly, and for the first time this night, gives any hint about her status of a judge. "Well, _I'm_ hoping for you," she says, before being whisked away by her husband and Leroy, who is _beyond_ drunk, and definitely requires help getting home.

She watches them go, a pang in her heart. She really does hope it's not the last time she sees the Nolan's. When she turns back around, a drunken Ruby and Victor have started canoodling in the corner of their booth, and Emma takes that as her cue to head back to her room.

Sighing, she clears a handful of glasses, and brings them back to the bar counter. When she turns around, Killian has gathered the remaining ones, and deposits them next to her. "I suppose that's our cue," he murmurs, echoing her thoughts.

"Yeah," she agrees, but neither of them move. Neither of them breathe, she thinks.

"You really fit in here," Killian says finally. She makes a face. "Really, love. I've never seen Leroy take such a shining to anyone so quickly. And you even outdrank Will Scarlet, and trust me love, that's no small feat."

Emma smiles, despite herself. It'd been quite funny watching a nearly immobile Will being escorted out the diner, his full weight supported by a tiny librarian. "Yeah, well, this is a nice place. People seem...real here. It's harder to get to know people in the city."

Killian nods. "Aye, I went to university in Boston. Never quite felt like...home."

They hold each other's gaze for a few more moments, before Emma turns away, flattening her palms against the countertop. "Well, Henry and I will be sure to visit."

He quirks his lips at her. "Swan, you'll win. Trust me."

She huffs, rolling her eyes. "I'm not gonna win, Killian. I don't have a college degree, and I've spent the last ten years of my life working as a bail-bonds-person. I don't know the first thing about running an inn."

He's still smiling at her as he drains the last of his drink. "And here I thought your plan was to run it like a home with an open door, not like a business."

She freezes, slowly raising her eyes to his. Those are her words. Her exact words—from her essay entry. Her blood runs cold, and he instantly realizes his mistake. "_You read my letter_?" She hisses.

"I..." He scratches behind his ear again, cringing. "Well...yes, love. I'm the other judge."

She just stares at him. She feels so raw, so exposed, and it _pisses her off_. She turns away, storming out of the diner before Ruby and Victor can wisen up to the argument unfolding in front of them. Killian is hot on her heels, and he whirls her around by the elbow, forcing her to look at him.

"And now you, what? Want me to sleep with you in return for your vote?"

He gapes at her. "God, no, Emma! Never!"

She's so livid, she doesn't even think before speaking, stalking farther our of his embrace. "Oh, so you _don't_ want to sleep with me? Didn't realize that was so unappealing."

"That's hardly the truth," he sighs, but his temper is starting to flare too. "Swan, will you just listen to me? I wasn't trying to do anything but get to know you better, and I do really—"

"You don't get it! I want to win this fair and square! I wanted to earn this—to earn _anything_, for the first time in my life!" She shouts, her hands in the air. "And instead, I'm only gonna win because you want to get in my pants!"

He stills, watching her with a pained expression. "Swan, you had my vote before I met you."

She's still glaring, but her curiosity has been piqued. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I was reading your entry when you came in, love. I heard you introduce yourself to Granny, and that's why I got up. I had to see the woman who's letter moved me so deeply."

She thinks back to the first time she saw him, clutching the journal full of papers. "Yeah right," she scoffs, and starts to walk away.

"You think you're the only bloody person who moved to this town for a fresh start?" He yells after her. She stops, but doesn't turn. "You think you're the only orphan who's ever wanted a home, a wall to hang family portraits?" He throws her own words back at her from the letter, and she cringes at the pain in his voice. "Forgive me for thinking that was a noble reason to vote for you."

Emma finally shifts, looking at him. He's panting, his hand dug into his hair, looking every bit as distraught as she feels. "I just...I _told_ you things, Killian. And the whole time, you knew them anyway, because you'd already read my letter." She pauses, her voice small. "I feel like such an idiot."

"Please don't, love," Killian murmurs, looking pained. He hesitates, but brings his hands up to her arms, thumbs rubbing circles into her leather jacket. "I told you things too love, if you recall. Things I wouldn't have shared if I just wanted a shag. I shouldn't have tried to get so close to you, knowing it would affect my impartiality, but I just...wanted to know you. And I wanted you to know me. I couldn't help it."

She watches his thumb at work, relaxing under his touch, even if it's through the layers of clothing. "Okay," she breathes.

He pauses. "Okay?"

"Okay," she repeats, nodding. "I'm sorry I lashed out. I'm just not...used to people not having ulterior motives."

A flash of anger appears on Killian's handsome features, his jaw locking. She gets the sense it's not her he's upset with, but rather taking offense on her behalf. "I assure you, Emma, my feelings are quite genuine. And if you require proof, I'll withdraw myself from my position, and let someone else determine the winner."

She bites her lip, fighting a smile. "You really were going to vote for me before you met me?"

"You had me at the first line, love," he murmurs, his voice getting husky. His attention briefly drops to her lips, and she notices how closely they're standing.

"Then I guess it's okay," she whispers, her fingers smoothing the creases in his lapels. And really, she's not planning to kiss him. But he's just breathing so hard, and it's making her think of _other_ reasons to be breathing hard, and he's just so—without any warning, she yanks him forward, pressing her lips against his.

And for as many times as she's felt strongly since arriving in Storybrooke, none of them compare to this kiss.

It's like coming home.

* * *

She does win, of course.

And although she promised Granny she wouldn't change or add a thing, she does. Over the front desk, next to the portrait of Granny and Ruby in front of the inn, she hangs the photograph that was taken the day she'd taken over ownership.

She'd been exhausted from the long drive, and sweaty from hauling boxes, but Sidney Glass from the local paper had shown up, wanting a picture of her and Henry. "Go on, love," Killian had assured her, "I'll take the rest of the boxes up."

She'd shook her head, just extended her hand towards him, silently asking him to stay, to be in this with her. And he'd taken it without hesitation, lacing their fingers together as the photograph of the three of them was snapped.

Home, indeed.

.

.

.

* * *

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! Seriously. Please. I worked pretty hard on this story and I haven't written much in a while, and I've been pretty sick this week (pulling that card) so...any thoughts would make definitely my day. **

**Listen, I'll beg.**

**I will. **

**Please.**


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